


Cuddle Up, Baby, Move in Tight

by Trigonometrical



Category: Polygon/McElroy Vlogs & Podcasts RPF
Genre: Anal Fingering, Consensual Somnophilia, Dubious Consent, M/M, brief mention of consensual drugged sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-08-14 10:38:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20190910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trigonometrical/pseuds/Trigonometrical
Summary: Brian smells sogood, is the thing—and oh, Pat’s sleep-drunk brain catches up that he’s nosing his way along Brian’s back. Just warm skin and patchouli body wash and the tang of sleep-sweat. It shouldn’t make his morning erection rock-hard when Brian snuffles and scooches closer, out of instinct, but it does. Fucking hell.





	Cuddle Up, Baby, Move in Tight

**Author's Note:**

> Wanted to practice with a Pat POV, really jumped in with both feet on this one. A friend messaged me, "Somnophilia? :D?" and I replied "GDI" and opened a new blank doc.
> 
> Title from "Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go" (lol) by Wham!

Pat wakes up chilled, which is disorienting because the room had been stifling hot when they went to sleep. Brian’s window AC takes for_ever_ to kick on once you plug it in, and they’d gotten back late from the bar, and then it had been a whole _thing _to coordinate showering and cleaning up with Laura and Jonah in the mix. So Pat had fallen into bed slightly damp and mostly humid, splayed out on his back—both he and Brian starfished _just so_ to avoid touching each other in their sleep—the AC beginning to chug out some cooler air in the room.

But thank Christ, it had hummed away while they tried not to move, to sweat (and sweated anyway); so Pat wakes up at—he fumbles and checks his phone—four in the morning, chilled, the cooled sweat prickling against his skin in the blowing air. Pat rolls his shoulders, pop his neck, and flips onto his side, facing Brian.

Brian’s not snoring—he doesn’t _snore, Patrick, don’t be a galoomba_—but his breaths are loud and even, puffs of air against the pillow that’s smushed against his face. He’s on his stomach, legs kicked akimbo across the bed and tangled in the top sheet, his head sideways toward Pat. His hair’s not long, not anymore, but still long enough that during sleep it flops over his eyebrows and the tips of his ears. Pat can’t help himself, leans over to place a soft kiss on Brian’s bare shoulder.

They’d gone to sleep naked, which Pat typically doesn’t do—he likes his junk contained and in its proper place, thanks. But the thought of putting on boxers right now, in the fucking global warming hellscape that is New York in July, was out of the question. He had no choice but to crawl into bed completely bare-assed.

Brian, the sleepy hedonist, snoozed like that all the time. Said something or other about airflow and circulation and studies on sperm count, which had sounded like utter bullshit. But what did Pat know. It’s the kid’s body, and it’s—well, it’s doing _just fine_ so far.

It’s—tempting, then to place another kiss on his shoulder. And another. The sheet only comes up to his armpit, making Brian look like the cover of a pirate-themed romance novel—

_the kind Pat used to steal from his mom’s nightstand and read when he’d stay home sick from school, resolutely ignoring whether he wished he was the swashbuckling captain or the fair maiden or both_

—with his stupidly biteable shoulders draped in white cloth. Pat pulls down the sheet to expose more of his upper back, and Brian just shifts his head, rubs his nose further into the pillow.

He smells so good, is the thing—and oh, Pat’s sleep-drunk brain catches up that he’s nosing his way along Brian’s back. Just warm skin and patchouli body wash and the tang of sleep-sweat. Pat wraps one arm loosely around Brian’s waist, and it shouldn’t make his morning erection rock-hard when Brian snuffles and scooches closer, out of instinct, but it _does_. Fucking hell. Pat puffs air out of his nose, barely catching the whine that’s caught up in his throat.

_You’re not a pervert_, Brian had told him, eyes dancing like a freakin’ succubus or something, when Pat had confessed what he’d—if Brian was into, well—it’s pretty fucked up, so don’t—it’s not a deal breaker. _You’ve developed refined tastes, old man. Aged like a fine wine_. And then he’d hummed a bit of Wham! right into Pat’s jaw, bit down, and said, _It’s hot, Patrick. Can’t wait for you to fuck me up right. _

Pat wouldn’t—he still hadn’t—but Brian looks so good with his mouth gently parted, his expression slack. Content. Pat’s dying to turn it into something _wanting _instead. Stripped down and open and free. He inhales deeply at the back of Brian’s head, basks in the sleep-heavy smell of him, the fading scent of his shampoo, leaving behind just Brian.

He sucks a gentle kiss into Brian’s scapula as he slides over Brian’s back, uses his calves and the motion to pull Brian’s legs together. Pat settles with his knees spread, straddled over Brian’s upper thighs. It’s not, like, the _most_ invasive to wake up your partner with a massage, right? Pat’s sure he’s seen something or other like that in a movie Brian had made him watch.

Pat knows he’s giving himself an out. He also knows that he’s not going to take it.

His brain’s a complicated place to be, sometimes.

Pat starts by placing his hands at the top of Brian’s ass, softly grabbing at the muscle. His body feels warm and loose under Pat’s hands. Brian is thick (_thicc_, he would say), with a rock-solid core that makes Pat sweat on the best of days. But even with that fast-metabolism dancer’s body, Pat’s hands fucking—fucking _dwarf_ Brian’s hips. Make him look so small. Vulnerable. Pat can meet his thumbs at Brian’s tailbone and curve his hands around Brian’s waist. So. He does. His fingers wrap around to the front of Brian’s body, pressed between his stomach and the bed. It’s intoxicating, how easy it is to hold him—especially in sleep, when Brian has snuffled at Pat’s shifting body weight, but not much else.

He presses his thumbs into the tense muscle he finds at Brian’s lower back—massage, right—draws tiny circles that make Brian’s sleep-breath catch, puff out his nose instead of his mouth. From there, Pat gentles his hands up Brian’s back, flat-palmed and soothing. Brian shifts under his hands, presses back into the soft touches. His brow furrows, then smooths out. Pat feels a grin twitch the corners of his own mouth.

The lube is still on the nightstand from three days ago because they’re both professionals but they’re also gross boys who sometimes (most times) don’t clean up properly after sex. Pat’s often grateful for the non-fastidiousness, but especially now, when he doesn’t have to jostle Brian much to grab the lube. He puts one hand in the middle of Brian’s back to steady himself, and Brian _fwumps_ completely down into the bed, boneless. He’s still asleep, from what Pat can tell—unless he’s being a little faker, but there’s no way Brian could consciously match his dumb-cute sleepy nose whistles. However, Brian’s eyelids are fluttering, so it’s only a matter of time before the jig is up. And well, Pat’s already been wholly consumed by guilt, he might as well jump straight into the fire.

He does warm the lube between his fingers first, at least. It’s their most expensive one, the satiny kind they break out when they don’t use condoms. Pat hadn’t considered types of lubes before Brian. He’d just thought there was _lube_. But Brian was a fuckin’ lube connoisseur, a lube sommelier, who’d dragged Pat by the wrist into their local progressive sex toy store and listed the varietals and their proper pairings. He’d chittered and friendly-flirted with the salesperson about their favorites and which would feel best with skin, with silicone, with a metal buttplug—_stop hyperventilating, Patrick, and go pick one out_. Pat’s getting there with the nuanced language for bespoke, small-batch, single-origin lubes, but so far for this one he’s got: _feels good on his dick_.

Pat spreads some on himself, then adds more to his fingers and caps the bottle with his dry hand. He’s shaking, and tries to pretend it’s solely from arousal and not lingering nerves. But one more look at Brian’s slack face, his parted lips, and Pat’s body lists forward without him expressly telling it to move.

He grabs Brian’s hips and moves his ragdoll-limp body into a better position underneath Pat, higher up the bed, so Pat has better access to his ass. Which he takes, liberally—grabs one cheek in his fingers and spreads Brian apart. His other hand drags up Brian’s center, Pat’s thumb rolling in circles around Brian’s hole. He’s already so soft and open, and whether that’s from sleep or from fucking last night, Pat doesn’t know, but his dick twitches hard against his stomach at the uncertainty. Tangled thorns of _want_ curl around his pelvis, settle deep into his body at the base of his cock. Pat’s so turned on he’s gonna shoot in a second if he’s not careful. But every once in a while, there’s also a tiny prick of guilt. Of shame. That he _shouldn’t _like this, but does, oh God he does.

There’s a confused noise from up the bed when Pat’s thumb dips into Brian’s hole—shallowly, at first, then deeper when there isn’t any resistance to catch him. “Pat?” Brian asks, voice hitching, raspy with sleep. He tries to push himself up and flip over. “Whuzz go–”

Pat hushes him, moves the hand on Brian’s ass up to his lower back. Presses down firmly until Brian gives and lies back down. “It’s nothing, baby,” Pat murmurs. “Go back to sleep.”

A shiver rolls down Brian’s body, and Pat can’t help but grin, tongue poking at the corner of his mouth, when he hears a soft _fuck_ escape from the muffled pillow. But Brian’s body is still sleep-heavy and pliant underneath him as Pat removes his thumb and adds two fingers instead. Brian’s legs slip apart, his toes digging aimlessly into the sheets.

Pat rocks his hips against Brian’s body, rubs his dick along any bit of skin he can reach. If they were in a better position for it, he’d kill to fuck Brian’s thighs, slide his dick between their velvety softness and come all over Brian’s beautiful legs. But that would involve waking up Brian even further, and Pat’s already so close from this illicit thrill that it wouldn’t even be worth it. Another day.

Brian blinks his eyes open, heavy-lidded. He closes them for several seconds, then tries again. “Pat,” he mumbles through a yawn. “Feel s’good.”

That’s—that’s pretty much it for him, then. Pat sits up on his knees and spreads Brian’s cheeks apart, his other fist flying over his cock. He comes _hard_, harder than he’d even expected, from what feels like his entire pelvis on outward. Pat doesn’t aim particularly well, but most of it lands on Brian’s ass, drips down the middle.

It’s purely out of concern for their linens that Pat takes his thumb and pushes some of his come _inside_ Brian, gathers up the wet streaks and does a bastardized version of cleaning him up. It’s so beautiful, painting his skin, but it’s even more beautiful to destroy his creation.

Brian’s full-on whimpering now with each slow catch of Pat’s thumb on his rim. He huffs an impatient, sleepy noise, as though he woke up five minutes before his alarm, and says something that’s either _molasses_ or _my ass is_ with his face buried in the pillow.

“What was that, sweet thing?”

“Please,” Brian says, lifting his head. His eyes are brighter, more alert. “Need you.”

Pat half-rolls Brian onto his left side, then hooks his arm underneath Brian’s left thigh and pulls. Brian flips onto his back, already rolling his eyes at Pat.

“Thanks for the assist,” he grumbles, but he’s smiling good-naturedly, and Pat can’t help but lean down for a kiss. The stuff before was good, but this? Brian’s teeth pressing against Pat’s lips as he grins into his mouth? Even better.

Brian moans high and thready when Pat slides two fingers inside him again. There’s no more teasing, because Brian would definitely pay him back for it later, and Pat couldn’t possibly go another round so soon in twenty-four hours. He drags the pads of his fingers across Brian’s prostate, not so much fucking as grinding his hand against Brian’s ass. It’s only a minute or two of that, Brian’s hand lightly dancing along his cock, before Brian _yelps_ and comes all over himself.

Pat works Brian through it until he’s shivering, then a moment longer for good measure, because he’s nothing if not predictable. A lovable asshole. Brian twitches his hips away and drags Pat down for another kiss that’s fast and peppery, like Brian’s sleep-body built up some kinetic energy that it couldn’t express until he was awake. Pat soothes and gentles, turns the quick kisses into soft, lush ones that linger, that make Pat wish he could get hard again, just to see what they could do.

Then Brian yawns into his mouth, and the spell is broken. Pat huffs and shoves at Brian’s shoulders, and Brian to his credit rolls over and laughs, a full-belly joyous laugh that makes his eyes crinkle. “_You’re_ the one who woke me up at the _ass crack of dawn_ to get his rocks off,” Brian says, yawning again. “Frickin’ jabroni.”

“You loved it,” Pat says, swatting at Brian’s thigh. He budges up and oh, would you look at that, they’re spooning. Pat nestles his chin into the crook of Brian’s neck.

“I did,” Brian says with a little hip wiggle. He’s quiet for a minute or so, and Pat almost thinks he’s gone back to sleep, when: “Did—did _you_ love it?”

Pat feels that horny-shame prickle up in his pelvis again. “I did, fuck me running. It was _so _good, Brian.”

“Oh good!” Brian says, his tone both chipper and relieved. He stretches out his legs like a cat, lock-kneed and straight, before settling back into Pat’s hold. “Because next time I was thinking, what if I like, took some ZzzQuil first, and—”

“Jesus _Christ_,” Pat swears, his dick jumping against the small of Brian’s back. Brian’s peals of laughter are bright and smug and loud, way too loud for the pre-dawn morning—and if Pat didn’t love him so much, he’d absolutely smother this wild, sex-nymph _lunatic _of a man with his pillow.


End file.
